


Wanted

by Toricchi



Category: Dragon Kishi-dan (Dragon Knights)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toricchi/pseuds/Toricchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raseleane's not quite sure what she was expecting from marriage, but it wasn't this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written sometime late 2007 and slightly jossed by the Lykouleon/Raseleane gaiden.

Lykouleon comes to her twice a week, the least he can get away with without people starting to talk. Everyone tells her to be patient, that love takes its time to bloom. In the meantime, they say with smiles, he's a kind and generous man who will give her everything she's ever wanted. Surely she can forgive a few small indiscrepancies here and there.

 

But she's not foolish enough not to realize that he isn't spending the nights he's not with her alone and that when he's lying in her bed he's wishing he was elsewhere. His lovemaking is clumsy and mechanical, hands fumbling with the buttons of her nightgown. Intercourse is brief, and the few touches and kisses do little for her. He is a beautiful man, and a good one, but he does not desire her. In truth, she doesn't think he desires women at all, but the pressure is on them to produce a heir sooner rather than later, as the clouds over Kainaldia darken.

 

That leaves her with a lot of spare time when she's not at the parties that are starting to seem farcical, or in meetings with Cernozura. She hadn't imagined some grand romance, prince meets princess and falls head over heels and they live happily ever after. She was too practical for that, but she had hoped for… What had she been hoping for? She'd thought when she came to Draqueen, with her belly full of butterflies, that they would at least be able to make an attempt of it. But Lykouleon barely looks at her except for when he has to, like when he takes her arm at dinner when they sit down together.

 

Ruwalk always smiles at her when they meet, and she always smiles back. She wonders sometimes whether they think she doesn't notice. She's pretty, but she's not an idiot, and even if it weren't for the fact that everybody already knows, the way they touch each other, so casually, would give it away. He never touches her, his wife, that way.

 

It's getting late, bells chiming midnight, and Lykouleon is nowhere to be seen. She's not surprised by this anymore. She's used to sleeping alone in the gigantic bed. But tonight it feels like she's drowning in an ocean of sheets, and the sheer waste angers her. She has this large bedchamber and two bathrooms and a sitting room and an antechamber all of her own, and what does is it all supposed to mean in this a pale imitation of a marriage? Lykouleon doesn't want her, and she's spending the night alone, again. Even Cernozura, she'd managed to pry out of her, blushing, has someone to go home to at night.

 

It's _pathetic_. She tears the sheets off her angrily and shoves her arms into her robes and her feet into her slippers. It's fine for Lykouleon to spend his nights in someone else's bed, but she stays locked up in her room in a cold, empty bed, his beautiful trophy.

 

It's not even just that he doesn't touch her unless he has to, but that they barely _speak_. Oh, they exchange pleasantries over the breakfast table and he meets with her weekly to discuss the goings-on in the castle, but she's had more meaningful conversations with her cat than she has with Lykouleon, and it at least seems to enjoy her company. Lykouleon always looks like he's doing his chores. A good man. A dutiful sovereign. A terrible husband.

 

She needs someone to _talk_ to, who's interested in the details. She isn't just a pretty face; her father had drilled her since she was born in politics, history and business, as befitting the future Dragon Queen. Whenever she tries to broach the topic with Lykouleon, he just gives her the close-eyed smile and changes the subject back to work.

 

She's not quite sure what she was expecting from marriage, but it wasn't this.

 

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. She simply can't stay in this room one second longer, but where can she go? The few friends she's managed to make at the castle will be with their husbands or lovers at this hour, and she can't just wander the castle freely anymore without the security guards shadowing her.

 

And then, just like that, she knows just where to go.

 

* * *

 

Alfeegi rubs sleepily at his eyes when he opens the door, and belatedly she remembers how late it really is. "Your Highness!" he gasps when he sees who it is, and he doesn't seem to know what to do, staring at her for long moments before he gathers himself and invites her in, the slightest hint of a blush staining his cheeks.

 

She's never been in any of the Officer's quarters before, for either official or personal purposes. Alfeegi's sitting room is small, his furniture sturdy and practical – rather like him, she smiles to herself. He ushers her into the easy chair, but doesn't sit himself. He's in his nightrobe, she realizes, and it looks strange on him; she's never seen Alfeegi anything but formally clothed. His hair is down too, slightly messy from his pillow and falling in his face, and his face soft from sleep which makes him look so much younger, so much more carefree.

 

"Can I… what can I do for you?" He stutters a little which makes her smile. Alfeegi's always the one who blushes and stammers and drops things in her presence. His nervousness is endearing; at least he realizes she's a woman. Lykouleon hardly seems to, and no one else will ever dare to touch or say anything to the Emperor's woman.

 

Alfeegi really doesn't know what to do with himself; he's folding and unfolding the antimacassar, smoothing out imaginary creases. He has strong hands, long fingers, made for careful work… and the first stirrings of desire low in her belly surprise her. Just thinking about another man in this way would be enough for some to string her up – but it's perfectly okay for Lykouleon to have another lover, she thinks to herself bitterfly. No other man had ever touched her – and never would, now.

 

"Are you all right, Your Highness?" Alfeegi says tentatively, and she realizes she hasn't responded to his question.

 

"How many times have I told you to call me Raseleane, Alfeegi?" she says gently, with a smile to show it's not a reprimand, and Alfeegi flushes even more.

 

"Your-- Raseleane, did you need something?"

 

Putting herself in his place, she sees how strange it must be for him to have her show up in the middle of the night in her nightgown, looking somewhat frayed around the edges. He doesn't look like someone who's used to having women in his quarters, by the way he's constantly fidgeting. That gives her a moment's pause.

 

The maids keep her up-to-date with the more personal happenings at the castle, but she's never heard of anyone coming out of Alfeegi's rooms in the early hours of the morning, or of kisses stolen in hallways thought empty. She's not the only one spending her nights in a lonely bed, then, and her heart aches for him a little. Fools, both of them, longing for men who will never return their affections.

 

It's a shame no one touches him, so she does, taking her hand in his, and a little bolt of electricity runs through her. He looks down at their linked hands in confusion.

 

"Your Highness?--" and she leans forward and presses her mouth against his. His lips are soft and warm and he smells like sandalwood. Yes, she _does_ want him, and she sees no reason why she shouldn't have him, and with that her mind is made up. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him in closer, seeking that warmth he's got stored up inside him.

 

Alfeegi freezes, half-crouched over the arm of the couch, until he draws away. When there's enough space between them, she can see that his eyes have grown large and dark with confusion.

 

"Please forgive me, Your Highness," he babbles, with an uncoordinated attempt at a bow, "My deepest apologies, but we can't—"

 

"Alfeegi," she says, drawing herself up and shaking her hair out so it falls around her shoulders, "we can." She leans into him, sliding her hands into his hair, and kisses him again, wet enough to make her intent clear. His hair is silkier than she'd expected, falling through her fingers like water; his skin soft and warm, smelling faintly of something spicy. There have been times she's wanted Alfeegi to think as another colleague, as businesslike and competent as Tetheus or Cernozura but not tonight; her mouth is open and hot against his, waiting for him to take the invitation.

 

"_Stop_," he says, shaking her off. "Lykouleon--"

 

"Is warming someone else's bed tonight," she says. Her hands go to the belt of her robe and his eyes follow; Alfeegi's sense of propriety might be interfering, but he does want her, she senses it. "I think you know that very well." He knows _who_ as well, and his eyes darken another shade, perhaps with pain, almost vulnerability.

 

This time, he doesn't pull away.

 

He stutters when she slides her hands into his robe, flattening her palms over his skin, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart. Honestly, she's a little surprised at her own forwardness, but his reticence is more unexpected. Alfeegi acts like someone who is completely unfamiliar with intimacy, for whom being touched is a new and strange sensation.

 

That it might be angers her. Perhaps he might not possess Lykouleon's golden beauty, or Ruwalk's easy charm, but Alfeegi, sweet, sensible Alfeegi is a good man too, the only one of all of them who's _always_ been there for her, from the first time she'd come to the castle and he'd dropped his folder, blushing, when he bowed.

 

Fools, all of them: she and him, for still hoping, them for not knowing what they're wasting.

 

He's still skittish so they go slow. She gradually teases his tongue into her mouth, and the feel of it, hot and heavy, sends heat pooling low in her belly. The rush of desire is new, and intoxicating, wanting to _possess_ him, to _have_ him, have something she wants for once, something that's just for her and her alone.

 

They've been moving incrementally closer all along, and finally, finally she's in the tight circle of his arms and they've got body-to-body contact, triggering shooting stars in her belly. She can feel the heat of his skin through the layers of silk and lace and cotton, and wonders if it's having the same effect on him as it is on him.

 

It feels like they could kiss for hours. Lykouleon never kisses her not unless it's a precursor to something else, or they're posing at an official function, and it always feels perfunctory, a little nicety before getting on with the job. Alfeegi on the other hand, doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move on. His mouth is warm and wet as they explore each other slowly, hand resting lightly on her hip.

 

She doesn't want to stop tasting his mouth just yet, but there's definitely other things on her mind, and the throbbing between her legs is growing more insistent. She tries to steer him subtly towards the bed, one step at a time slowly so he doesn't start to worry again (how beautiful he is free of those concerns), but she should have known it's too much not to expect Alfeegi to notice something.

 

"Your Highness, we musn't—" He might be more convincing if his mouth wasn't wet, and if his erection wasn't distorting the neat line of his robe. Her mouth goes dry at the picture of him, so messed up from the usual, primly-outfitted Alfeegi she works with everyday, and all of a sudden she wants to touch him, wants him out of those fussy clothes, and _inside_ her, in a way she's never wanted anything before.

 

"Shut up, Alfeegi," she mutters under her breath. Wouldn't they be shocked to hear her speak so vulgarly? They'd be even more shocked to see her, daring more than she'd ever thought she could, sliding her hand between Alfeegi's legs and cupping his erection.

 

It's nothing like touching Lykouleon. He's hard and soft all at once, hot and silky as she runs her fingers along the shaft, getting the feel of him. He gasps at her touch, mouth a perfect little 'o.' She pushes him to the bed as her impatience begins to mount. She wants him _now_.

 

"Raseleane—" he begins when she knocks him flat on the bed and undoes the belt of her robe, and it dies off as her robe slides off her shoulders. His eyes go very wide.

 

It's gratifying to know that someone finds her attractive. His gaze makes her squirm slightly; it's so thorough, so _Alfeegi_, and she just hopes he likes what he sees. His hand is slowly creeping up her thigh, rubbing in tiny circles, and when he says "Are you sure this is all right?" his voice is so heavy with desire that she almost grins in triumph. _She_ did this, made him breathless and aroused and wanting.

 

"Yes," she says, straddling his hips for emphasis and some of his uncertainty seems to slip away. She can feel his cock against her, hot and hard and definitely interested, and she moans. Heat is building inside of her –_has_ been building inside of her since she married Lykouleon- churning to get out, and she grinds down on him, hoping he'll get the message that she's ready to go and that he's not going to keep her waiting too much longer.

 

_Oh_. No, not too much longer. Alfeegi's desire has finally won out over his shyness, and his fingers are parting her, sliding inside her. He's watching her intently, almost in a sense of wonder, as he rubs his knuckles gently against her clit and she can't help herself; she's grinding back against him, probably too hard but it feels so good, those hands on her with the same intensity and concentration they show in the office. His thumb traces small circles around her clit and she bucks against his hand, something wordless and incoherent falling from her lips as he works his fingers inside her. They go in easily; she's so very wet, she's been waiting so long, a lifetime, for this.

 

She's coiling tighter, higher, body clamping around his fingers, breath coming in small pants, and he seems to sense her need and speeds his hand. He's being a little rougher now, and she tenses even more until her body _unwinds_ all of a sudden in a sharp burst of fire and she slumps against him.

 

When she can rouse herself again, she finds him watching her almost tenderly, and perhaps in wonder -at her, maybe, or at himself. She smiles lazily like a big, sated cat, and his eyes darken instinctively in response, although his surprised intake of breath is short and sharp. But she hadn't had to sit through a dozen excructiatingly embarrassing lessons on how to please a man before they'd let her become the empress, and she's not finished yet, either. Orgasm has taken the sharpness of the edge of her passion, but she hasn't had _enough_; still hungry, like a starving man at a banquet. And she has Alfeegi laid out before her like one. His robe is pushed off at the shoulders, and she helps it along its way until it slides to the ground in a puddle of silk and she can touch him wherever she wants.

 

He's long and lean, milk-pale except for the bright spots of colour in his face; slim, but well put-together, the unexpected musculature of his arms and shoulders is hard beneath her hands. He is beautiful; perhaps not in Lykouleon's classical way, but in his _own_, Alfeegi-way, like polished oak, or the writing of a master calligrapher.

 

"Alfeegi," she says firmly, and his eyes slide open again. They're turning a dark, burnished gold from desire, and a few seconds later they're widening in surprise as she flips him on top of her, a trick taught to her she's never had the occasion to practice until now. His weight feels good settled on top of her, covering her like a warm blanket, although someone needs to make sure he eats more; he's too thin, ribs clearly visible through his skin.

 

"Raseleane…?" he questions, looking slightly confused, and in answer she reaches between them and squeezes his cock gently, and he makes a soft sound and buries his face in her hair. He's so hard, the head wet, that she's amazed he's still coherent enough to form full sentences.

 

"We can't do this," he says, and she wraps her legs around his waist as she guides him into her and says fiercely, "_We are_."

 

He sinks gently into her. She's panting already as he fills her, the sensation familiar but _new_; the care Alfeegi's taking, the little noises he's making, his hand clutching hers compulsively. She runs one hand soothingly down his back until he's fully sheathed inside her and she can feel bright spots of heat where they're joined, hip-to-hip, mouth-to-mouth. His skilled hands are cupping her breasts, brushing her nipples, bringing alive new sensitivity. She's hyperaware of all the places their bodies are touching; her cells are going crazy, and when he begins to thrust, only gently, her senses go into overload and the specifics of the situation are lost to her, just the slight roughness of his hands, the heat of his cock working inside her.

 

She puts her hands around his neck and drags him down to her so they can get even closer. The expression on his face is like nothing she's ever seen before – he almost looks _surprised_, shocked at being allowed to do this. He might as well be –this wasn't exactly how she'd planned to spend her night either- but he looks completely unfamiliar with _pleasure_, and it makes her chest ache for him. She nudges him down onto her chest, and uses her muscles to squeeze him gently, bring him further into her, and he moans.

 

"Raseleane," he gasps, and oh, that's better, not so gentlemanly now. Muscle stands out easily on his forearms; she can see how hard he's trying to go slow, and she rocks his hips against him to encourage him. His lips are moving against her neck, babbling soft and wordlessly, and she strokes his hair soothingly.

 

It's building inside her again, that feeling of needing to get somewhere. Somehow he seems to know -how does he always know?- and now he's pushing deeper inside her, fully sheathing himself and she wants every sweet inch of it, wrapping her legs even tighter around his waist to hold him right _there_. When he's all tucked up inside her like that, bodies fitting together so perfectly, so naturally, like pieces of a puzzle interlocking together -oh yes, now he's getting it, brushing up against that place deep in the core of her, and she throws her head back on his pillow and pants.

 

Not long now; she was already ready to go off the moment she'd kissed him, and the feel of him sliding in and out of her is exactly what she needs. Caring, observant Alfeegi knows the trembling that starts in her thighs and works its way up her body means that she's close. And then she's exploding with his name on her lips, shattering apart, melting fluidly against him, so intense that black and red sparks fly behind her eyes until the feeling of floating slowly, finally fades away, leaving just a lingering heaviness in her bones.

 

When she finally comes back to herself, Alfeegi is the one trembling, gripping her hand so hard it hurts, making pained noises into her hair. The muscles in his back are tense and jumping underneath her hands. He's trying _not_ to come, she realizes, oh, _Alfeegi_, and she drags his face down for a wet, messy kiss.

 

"It's okay," she soothes – but it isn't really, as she realizes a moment later. Neither of them can take the risk of a pregnancy. It's so like Alfeegi, always paying attention to the details, always thinking of her, and as she strokes his face, she thinks her heart could burst.

 

"Thank you," she whispers, and he pulls out and lies beside her.

 

"Raseleane," he whimpers urgently, and she pulls him against her and puts her hand on his cock. That's it, it's over, he's coming all over her hand, with a ragged cry he's obviously trying so hard to hold back.

 

He's beautiful like this, stretched out and taut with desire, sex-rumpled and flushed and breathing hard, and she doesn't want to stop touching him just yet. Alfeegi's eyes are closed so tightly they might be stitched shut, and his orgasm shakes him from head to toe; she feels every long held-back tremor shudder through him as warm fluid runs over her hand. She dips her finger in it experimentally, shocking herself. He tastes good.

 

When his eyes finally open again, they're no longer so desperately bright, and the tension has melted away from his body. She smiles and kisses him again, just a soft brushing of lips this time. She feels much more at ease as well now, like some great weight has been lifted from her.

 

He runs his hand through her hair, touching her forehead, her cheek gently. She feels warm and sleepy, but she can't stay here. The scandal if she was discovered in another man's quarters might just be enough to unseat her precarious position as Lykouleon's queen. Reluctantly, she rouses herself.

 

"I have to leave," she says, although she's loathe to, and he nods and helps her into her robe again. They keep touching –they can't stop touching- as he ties it for her, such a small, intimate gesture that she falls a little bit in love with him, or maybe a little bit _more_ in love, and has to turn and kiss him one more time before she leaves.

 

This kiss is a little bit sad, weighted down by longing, for they shouldn't -won't, she thinks, if she comes again she thinks Alfeegi will shake his head sadly- but full of hope, and she puts everything she can give into it, to say thank you for what he's given her, more than he knows. He offers to accompany her to her quarters, but they both know that would be insane, so he sees her off at the door and kisses her gently on the forehead.

 

When she gets back to her quarters, Lykouleon still isn't there, but they don't seem quite so lonely with her warm little secret locked away tightly in her heart.


End file.
